


sea glass

by corvidbones



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: M/M, body/eye horror, jonah-typical beholding worship, post episode 160, there's some soft jm too don't worry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-01
Updated: 2019-12-01
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:00:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21625717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/corvidbones/pseuds/corvidbones
Summary: Not long after Jon and Martin have arrived back in London, Jonah meets them on a desolate street. There's only one thing he's come to see.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 16
Kudos: 171





	sea glass

**Author's Note:**

> Was struck with the urge to write some Jonah dialogue, and it turned into this.

"Oh, _beautiful_ ," Jonah all but breathes, and Martin feels like someone's just stuck a hot poker between his ribs. "I'd always thought they'd be brown, you know. Dark, like knots in wood, but this—" he lets out a low chuckle, "this blue, it really is quite fitting."

Jon’s hand, gripped tight around his sleeve, is the one and only reason why Martin hasn’t _launched_ himself at the snake standing before them. As it is, he has his axe held firm in his free hand, still glistening with the… the blood, or whatever kind of dark fluid went spraying from the last thing that had attacked them, as Jon _stared_ and Martin swung. He was getting better at going for clean arcs that took off the head in one go (when it came to creatures that had them, anyway), leading to a lot less hacking involved, which tended to mean less ruined clothing, and that was always a good thing. Especially considering that the last time he’d checked, there were only three intact shirts left between him and Jon.

Which, speaking of. Here they are, still damp from the previous night's rain and covered in several days worth of disgust, looking at a man dressed head to toe in a fine, laundered suit. He even has a lapel pin on, for fuck's sake; some shining, metallic green beetle. Martin wants to grab it from his coat and stab him with it, but as the urge rushes him, Jon's fingers tighten on his arm in silent warning. _Not yet_ , the touch says. _We don't know how powerful he is, now_.

It's true that they have to be careful, even if Martin despises letting him just stand here like he owns this random, crumbling street corner. Because if opening the door affected Jonah in the same way it did Jon, well. It wouldn't be good news for anyone, he thinks, but probably, _especially_ not for them. He's honestly a little surprised that Jonah hasn't found them before now, but perhaps he's been distracted. Perched like a buzzard on a telephone wire, watching all the little field mice run from the moggie stalking below. He certainly has the eyes for it, angled and sharp, fixed so entirely on Jon that it's as if Martin doesn't exist. As if he isn't presently holding a weapon and _seething_.

To his credit, Jon's staring back at Jonah with just as much focus, and with far more eyes than Jonah's ever swapped in his lifetime.

The first twenty-four hours after the start of the apocalypse were rough in a way that Martin can't bring himself to think about, not without feeling sick to his stomach. Jon had been inconsolable, fading in and out of a fugue state, and things only got worse once the Beholding's unbound influence started causing… changes. _Christ_ , It was one of the worst things Martin's ever had to watch, Jon's skin splitting into raw pockmarks that blinked and wept with pink saline, flushing the blood away to reveal eyes of a piercing blue. And for hours on end Martin could not even touch, could not do anything to help take Jon's fear and pain away because at the time, there had been nothing else left.

It had taken days before Jon was present enough to leave the safe house, and Martin doesn't think he's let go of him since. Always has a hand on him, on his shoulder, his waist, his wrist, needing to know that he's there after having nearly… no. It doesn't matter, because Martin _hadn't_ lost him, and he's not going to let Jonah take anything else away from either of them.

Jon's fingers clench against his arm, and Martin wants to say— something, but not now, not with this bastard of a man watching them.

"What do you _want_ ," Jon grits out, and the air hisses with static that Martin can feel prickling at the nape of his neck.

Jonah sways back on the balls of his feet, but the expression on his face is unperturbed. "I have what I want," he says, lips curling into a tight smile, "thanks to you, Jon."

Something flashes across Jon's face, and though Martin only catches a glimpse of it he knows the hurt that Jonah's just sunk his hook into, reeling it up to the surface.

"I just figured, what with how far you’ve had to travel back to London," Jonah continues, "that I should pay at least one visit in person. And I must admit, I've been curious to see the Beholding's work for myself. You really shouldn't be _ashamed_ of it, Jon; I'm sure that Seeing has saved both of your lives many times already."

Jon flinches minutely, expression pained, and Martin's veins are burning. He shifts the weight of his axe’s handle, feeling the sturdy wood beneath his palm, just for something to focus on that _isn't_ the thoughtful look smoothing over Jonah's face.

"I do wonder if the blue hails from the Lonely's influence," he practically croons, and Martin is rooted to the spot by Jon's grip as Jonah steps forward, casual as can be, to brush a hand over an eye on Jon's cheek. It's a barely-there touch to the fluttering eyelid, gone in a second, but Jon shivers from it anyway. "Such a similar shade to Peter's. Did you take that from him, too?"

" _No_ — no, I..." Jon's words catch on his tongue and refuse to leave. His hands are shaking.

"Go away, Jonah," Martin says at last, and those needling eyes finally turn on him. "If you don't have anything useful to say, and I find it _highly_ unlikely that you do, then leave. Us. _Alone_."

There's static again, and Jon looks up at him in alarm. Martin's pushing it, he knows, as the air turns frigid and heavy, like a storm rolling in from the sea. The endless shores of the Lonely have been left so terribly hungry, after all, and he can't help but imagine how _easy_ it would be to pull this man, whose only close acquaintance is dead and gone, into a cloud of smothering fog.

If Jonah can tell what Martin's thinking, he doesn't show it. All he does is shrug, stepping back with a tilt of his neck, running the same fingers that had touched Jon down along the length of his tie.

"Certainly," he says. His tone is agreeable, and it only worsens the nausea coiling in Martin's chest. As he turns to leave, his gaze lingers on Jon, and he almost seems to sigh. "For what it's worth, you're holding onto that sliver of… hm, _humanity_ , I suppose, far better than I had thought possible."

With that, he walks off down what remains of the sidewalk, and is gone. Jon slumps as soon as he’s out of sight, releasing his hold on Martin's arm.

"A sliver," he echoes, and Martin's about to go off on how Jonah Magnus is nothing but a _lying bastard_ when Jon's hand presses against his own, a request. Martin complies with a low huff of breath, lacing their fingers together.

"Can— can we just keep moving," Jon says, and he sounds so worn that Martin cannot bring himself to argue.

"...Yeah, 'course," he says, and finds himself leaning down to press a kiss to the bridge of Jon's nose. They can try and parse through whatever the hell that whole interaction was later, once Jonah's lingering presence has faded. "Let's go."

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos are adored!
> 
> You can find me on tumblr @corvidbones.


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